After Concert
by Erythros
Summary: There was something in the way he played tonight. /LenHino/


**Title: **After Concert

**Summary: **There was something in the way he played tonight.

**Context: **Len has already left for Europe. You'll understand. This was inspired by the fanart I drew of them over at http : // loveonmute . livejournal . com / 6441 . html. Haaaahahaah. Far happier than the initial plot bunny I was nurturing. Naturally, it's implied that Len loves Hino, but I didn't have him go say that bluntly in this fic. I never do, because I have yet to see that happen in the series. Hahahahah. Oh, well. _Otsukare/otsukaresama deshita _basically means, job well done. Or thank you for your hard work. hee. Review?

**Disclaimer: **_La Corda D'Oro _does not belong to me; otherwise, well, Len would have already managed to kiss Hino. If not him, then someone else from the bishounen. :D

**&&&&&**

There was something in the way he played tonight.

Everyone had noticed: his music had changed, ever so slightly, somewhere in between _Tzigane _and _Ave Maria, _where sharp, unrelenting notes melted into a sweetness and longing so unfamiliar to his audience. Schubert's piece was given justice by this young man, who, drawing on the strings one final time, looked like he wasn't even there, standing in front of the world—Vienna was far, far away, and he was someplace else.

The music hall erupted with applause. _Encore, encore!, _they seemed to shout, because he was a genius violinist who had proved himself once more tonight. But there would be no more; his ears had grown deaf to their words, and he bowed and left the stage.

"Good work out there," his manager told him, clapping his hand on his back once he reached behind the curtain. "I wonder, though – you've always refused to play that last one, but you surprised me, you know? Why'd you play it tonight? I thought you didn't like Schubert."

He didn't answer. Instead, somewhere along the way to his dressing room, he said, "How long has it been since I've been here?"

His manager looked quizzically at him. Blankly, he said, "Oh, I don't know. Let's see… two years? And ten months? It'll definitely be three in December."

Golden eyes narrowed ever so slightly. They'd reached the door to his room. Without a second glance at his manager, he turned the knob, and said, "I see. Thank you."

And he closed the door behind him.

It had been one thousand forty-two days since he'd left Japan. He knew; he'd always been counting. In those two and three fourths years, he had joined ten concerts, four of which were played with a symphony orchestra, two of which were played as part of a string quartet, and three of which involved a piano accompaniment. Tonight had been his first true solo. And he had played _that _piece that he scorned to hear, because it reminded him of what he'd left behind.

He had dreamed of this night, where praise upon praise for him alone could be heard in one big hall, in the city that nurtured the music he enjoyed, for playing the one instrument he had known all his life. It was strange, how suddenly empty he felt, when he had expected to be overwhelmed with having made his vision come true. But there it was, this numbness, as he sat on the sofa, his elbows resting upon his thighs, his head hung low—when he _thought _he was supposed to feel _accomplished _and _proud. _

_Ave Maria. _His manager thought he hated the piece. He didn't know, after all, that that song, ironically, was one rather close to his heart, and it was because of it that he never wanted to hear it ever again, so long as he was here, so far away from—from _her. _Because he _shared _that song with _her, _and it was because _of her _that he thought it to be too sacred to be played by and with anyone else. Because whenever he heard it, something ached terribly inside of him, and he missed her enough as it was. His manager didn't know, after all, that _he _was here to chase his dreams at the risk of leaving someone he wanted so badly to chase after _him. _

But he had played it tonight anyway, because this was _his _time to shine—hadn't she wanted that? He had played it _for_ her, in tribute of the girl who had changed his music drastically, and wanted him to do his best.

It had been one thousand, forty-two days since he had spoken to her. And today he missed her terribly.

In the next two minutes, he had flipped his cellphone open, clicked on her number and then—

"_Moshi moshi?_"

It had only taken five rings. The voice on the other line sounded rather sleepy, and he knew right away he had awoken her. His heart was beating; his mouth was dry.

"Hello…? Anyone there? _Ano, _if this is a prank call, it isn't funny waking up a person at five thirty in the morning on a _Sunday—_"

"It's me."

"Eh?" It was _her _voice. _Hers. _The characteristic small _eh _that she had always been prone to saying sounded just the same as it did in the past. And it took her only a few moments to recognize his. "Tsu-Tsukimori-kun?"

He smiled slightly. A sudden wave of comfort washed over him; he felt warm for the first time that day.

"Wha—how are—_why _are you calling _now_?" He hadn't called her. _Ever. _Even when he had still been in Japan, even when he was about to board the plane, even when he had felt so homesick and lonely in his first week in Europe. It was natural, he thought, that she'd react this way—especially since he hadn't had the courtesy to remember that, while it was evening where he was, morning was just about to start where _she _was.

She was fully awake now, though, and he was all too certain that she wasn't going to fall back to sleep any time soon. "Tsukimori-kun, you're still there, aren't you? Hello? Hell—"there was a loud sound, and he knew she'd fallen out of bed. He couldn't help but smile even further. "—oh, _shoot—_hello? _Moshi moshi_?"

"I had my first solo concert today," he replied, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. He'd never done this before, willingly talking to a girl on the phone. Then again, he only really paid attention to _her, _and their relationship was awkward enough as it was without phone calls and walks home. It was almost three years, and that was the second proper sentence he'd told her. It was awkward, and yet very comfortable, the way it felt when they held hands once upon a time that involved haunted houses and amusement parks.

It didn't seem to faze her; as was her nature, she seemed to burst in excitement. "Oh, yes! I know! So it just ended, huh? I happened to come across a news article that mentioned that online, and I—"

She rambled on, and he let her. Heaven knew whether or not someone was looking for him now for the encore, but he didn't care. He was far away, in a place that he only shared with this special girl.

Somewhere in between questions and random things, it became quiet. She'd stopped talking, and he listened, as a clock ticked somewhere in his dressing room, as the pianist now on stage played something of Debussy's. And then—

"_Ano, _Tsukimori-kun, _otsukare._"

His eyes flew open at the word that almost seemed whispered.

"Congratulations, Tsukimori-kun. I know you've done your best." And through her words, he felt her smile. "You wouldn't have called me, would you, if you didn't? I wish I was there to hear you play."

But _she was, _in his music, in his mind, in his heart when he played _Ave Maria_; almost three years, and he had spared her countless of thoughts for every time he heard it, for every time he'd warm his hands from the bitter cold of the city. But he couldn't bring himself to say that, because _this _was just like _Ave Maria; _beautifully cruel whenever he'd hear a street performer playing it on a moonlit evening because it made him think of her.

"I want to hear you play again one day, Hino," he found himself saying instead, arms resting against his knees once more, his head down low.

"_Mmm. Ano, _call more often, won't you?" she replied. "Just not at some ungodly hour."

"I'll try."

"And… I'll be waiting. Alright?"

"Alright."

"Then, again… _otsukaresama deshita."_

And then she was gone.

Nine minutes, forty-seven seconds. That was how long the phone call lasted. The applause he'd received from hundreds of people had lasted four minutes and twenty-three seconds less. And yet it was strange, how overwhelmed he had felt by the words of a girl a hundred thousand miles away who hadn't even heard him play tonight.

If he'd let himself go, he was sure he could have imagined her kneeling in front of him, his head resting against her shoulder, her fingers stroking his hair, whispering, at the same time, that he had done an excellent job. If she had been here, he would have wanted her to do those things.

_Otsukare. _

She had said that twice.

There was something in the way he played tonight. He heard applause for the pianist rumble from the speakers in his room, and for the first time that night, he felt proud. Today was his first solo concert, and the world, he knew, had seen him play his best.


End file.
